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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403376">Finding Warmth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parragone/pseuds/Parragone'>Parragone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, bad ideas with drones, dokkaebi and mute are basically siblings, echo and mute are also the only reason the team stays sane, everyone is snowed in, god bless wifi hotspots, grace is ace, most partners are only mentioned, mute has 0 social skills and this is explained, realizing you're an asshole, slight rarepair hell, the ops get vulnerable, this is innocent, this work focuses a lot of team building, with discussions of serious ish topics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:41:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,918</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403376</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parragone/pseuds/Parragone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten operators get snowed into Chalet, and they're stuck there for two weeks. They learn.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dominic "Bandit" Brunsmeier/Elias "Blitz" Kötz, Eliza "Ash" Cohen/Lera "Finka" Melnikova, Gustave "Doc" Kateb/Gilles "Montagne" Touré, Marasu "Echo" Enatsu/Chul Kyung "Vigil" Hwa, Mark "Mute" Chandar/Seamus "Sledge" Cowden/James "Smoke" Porter, Maxim "Kapkan" Basuda/Timur "Glaz" Glazkov, Mike "Thatcher" Baker/Jordan "Thermite" Trace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Of Course We're Stuck</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>What do you do when you're under quarantine for two weeks?<br/>Put your favorite ops under quarantine too.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What do you mean there’s going to be a week’s wait?!”</p><p>The shriek of indignation didn’t escape the other nine members of the team, even though Eliza had attempted to silence it. Timur gave her a puzzled look from the couch, and Mark poked his head in from the bar. The look on Gille’s face was one of dismayed disdain for the sheer idea, and something told her that the intense burning sensation in the back of her head was none other than Jordan himself, begging her to take it back.</p><p>“Eliza, we can’t fly anyone out to get you right now. The weather is going to be rough- Marius was the one to say we shouldn’t send anyone in.” </p><p>“Harry, for the love of all things in this world, tell me there’s a lower time limit.”</p><p>“Marius said seven days, just in case. It’s a matter of safety. He doesn't want to risk flying in blizzard conditions and end up stranding all of you there until rescue can arrive.”</p><p>She sighed. Marius was rarely wrong about flying conditions, and after his eventful time over Truth and Consequences, she didn’t want to trample his toes on such a call. It didn’t mean she wasn’t disappointed. It just meant she was stuck here with nine of her coworkers for at least seven days and at most fourteen.</p><p>This was going to go terribly.</p><p>"I would suggest," Harry said, tone understanding, "That you all call whoever it is you want to talk to before your service runs out. And also decide who gets the bed. There are several sleeping bags in the basement specifically for this sort of thing, and you shouldn't run out of food or lose electricity on site." </p><p>"I'll let everyone know. You do know Max is going to go absolutely insane during this, right?"</p><p>"That's why we have therapy, Eliza." </p><p>She shook her head before wishing the leader of Team Rainbow a good evening and whistling for everyone to get into the main living room. Mark came into the room while snacking on some crackers from the kitchen, Max quickly following and attempting to steal the bag from the Brit. Gustave came downstairs with Gilles and Grace in tow, the shield-bearer suffering an arm in a sling; Eliza felt bad for Gilles, knowing that he had sprained the wrist and deeply bruised the arm because of a misfired breaching round. Masaru and Dominic came out of the basement after a brief wait, the robotics engineer in a foul mood over what Eliza could only assume was the damaged Yokai in his hands. </p><p>Once everyone was sitting down, she took a breath and dropped her head. "We're stuck here. Seven to fourteen days. Harry says you should call anyone you want to talk to before our connection goes out." </p><p>"Bet you don't think carrying a wi-fi hotspot in my bag is a dumbass idea now, do you?" Mark’s snarky comment was followed up by a high five with Masaru, who predictably pulled out his own hotspot. </p><p>“Well, it is, but not this time.”</p><p>“Ah, sod off.”</p><p>As Mark had said that, he’d already begun dialing on his phone and getting up to leave the room. Eliza watched as the teams scattered to different areas of the house, Max and Dominic even heading outside to have their calls. Looking outside the windows, she could see the golden light peering at the training zone with cold indifference through the darkened, curling clouds of the incoming blizzard. </p><p>This was going to be a long stay.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Bed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Doc tries to argue he doesn't need the bed. While only three people tell him, the entire team thinks otherwise. </p><p>Get some sleep, you tired man.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Screams I to the endless void<br/>Masaru is the best kind of blunt</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep. He had been sitting on the couch, letting Gilles make a call to the GIGN operatives to let them know Olivier was in charge of doctor visits until Gustave got back. He had leaned his head back, listening to the quiet of the usually hectic training site, and then he was being nudged awake by Grace. It seemed they had found the spare off duty clothes kept in the chest downstairs, and though it was her size, she looked like it was slightly too big on her. </p><p>"Hey, Doc. We're giving you and Monty the bedroom." </p><p>He gave her a puzzled look, to which she smiled before nodding to the side. He looked, wiping his sleep away, to find that the other operatives had built a sort of barrier system with blankets and curtains to give each other privacy. The doctor shook his head after a moment, looking back to her. </p><p>"I would feel terrible," he told her, tone hushed. "I can sleep on the floor, give the bedroom-" </p><p>"This isn't up for debate, Doc. Gilles had the same protest and we shut it down," Grace replied with a tired laugh. "He's already been dragged upstairs. Thanks to the fact most of the training exercise took place in the basement, the window is even intact!" </p><p>He sighed, looking at her smile and the sheepish shrug that accompanied it. He began to start another protest when Masaru leaned down on the other side of him, and brought the back of the couch down just slightly with his weight. </p><p>"Doctor, I know you do not like taking the nicest accommodations when there are others to use them," the roboticist stated firmly, "But you and Gilles have two very particular reasons to have the bedroom. One, both of you have issues sleeping normally, let alone on the floor. Two, you and Gilles are the only two here who are married and we do not have two person bags." </p><p>Gustave bit his cheek, turning to look at Masaru with a slightly irate expression. "I do not have issues sl-" </p><p>"Gustave, you fell asleep on point earlier because you hadn't slept properly." </p><p>The doctor stammered, cheeks flushing as he remembered that he had indeed fallen asleep holding that angle. "I am not winning this argument, am I?" </p><p>"No. Get upstairs. Sleep well."</p><p>Masaru lifted off the back of the couch, and Grace laughed as she got up and waved him toward the stairs. He watched the two of them rejoin with the group before standing and stretching one arm to the side. Most of the others had already settled down for the night, with the exceptions of the two insomniacs and the roboticist. Mark, Grace, and Masaru were staying up, sitting in a circle and discussing something quietly. Gustave bit his lip, wanting to say one last protest against having been given the bedroom before deciding that the fight wasn’t worth the outcome of Masaru picking him up and forcing him to go upstairs. </p><p>He headed to the staircase, peering outside as he did to see the whiteout blizzard that had struck them. He could barely see past the window, let alone further out.He shook his head, climbing the stairs to the top and making his way to the bedroom. He habitually started to get out of gear he didn’t have on, belatedly realizing that he had already done so previously. </p><p>He hadn’t expected Gilles to still be awake, let alone for him to be awake enough to open his eyes and look at the doctor with an exhausted smile. The shield had positioned himself on his back, his injured right arm on the outside of the bed so he could let Gustave do as he always did- sleep on Gilles’ shoulder. </p><p>As Gustave got himself situated, pulling the blankets over himself and resting his head on his husband’s shoulder, he glanced at his tired partner and realized precisely what had gone on. He lifted his head, brows furrowing at his all too amused love as he grumpily mumbled.</p><p>“You were the one to suggest we get the bed, weren’t you?”</p><p>“Me? Oh, never, ma chérie. I simply said you have difficulty sleeping as it was and they decided that you should have the bed," Gilles replied, tone earnest. "Though I would have asked if they had not come to the conclusion themselves." </p><p>"Why? I can sleep on the floor, mon bouclier, you know this. My desk is not much different," he protested, face twisting slightly. </p><p>"I do know this, but I also know that you would sleep in the snow if someone else wanted an extra bag. You need real rest, Gus, and they want you to sleep properly. That means the bed, relatively undisturbed, where you can rest as long as you need." </p><p>"Have I ever told you I despise your rationality?" </p><p>"Yes, the last time I put myself between the terrorist and the hostage." </p><p>Gustave sighed, settling back down again and laying an arm across Gilles' stomach, gently as he could. He could feel his husband's arm under him shift and wrap around his midriff, pulling him closer under the covers. </p><p>"Mon amour obstiné," Gilles murmured as the doctor finally slipped into sleep again. He watched his partner for a brief time, making sure the man had relaxed before closing his own eyes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sorry the first chapter is cute stuff<br/>I'm not sorry for what's coming<br/>Enjoy the lighthearted fluff</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Fights</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mark and Timur have a conversation. It's not what Timur expected, but it's more than needed.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Maybe it was the eerie silence of a blizzard that nipped at his attention. It may have even been the empty feel that came when the world was still and he could not find the same peace. Whatever the case was, Timur was awake and watching the snow dance on the winter wind. A whiteout was more than the solid wall of white that many saw; he remembered hours spent watching the window as a child, the flakes never quite moving in harmony and yet not quite discordant.</p><p>He had noticed when Mark had entered the room, but he hadn’t left himself. The Englishman was never one to initiate small talk if he could help it, and when Timur glanced, the young man was examining some of the items on the shelves. He’d often spent time with the quiet engineer when they were both unable to sleep, or when they were both injured on a mission and restricted to the infirmary. </p><p>They were not quite friends, he thought, but they were close; he could think of the geometric sketches of the towering steeples of London that littered Mark’s workbooks, and the restricted design of the electronics that he detailed so well on blueprints. For someone so reclusive, the man had a keen eye for the mechanical side of the world; a wonderful asset with zero idea of how to communicate his ideas.</p><p>He turned, slowly, to lean against the wall by the window and watch the engineer turn the prop vase in his hands. Timur folded his arms, watching quietly until Mark put the item back on the shelf.</p><p>“You cannot sleep either?”</p><p>Mark looked up, blinking. Timur could see now that the engineer was wearing the face mask he tended to wear whenever he was off duty, the signature white ‘x’ over his mouth. His head and hair was covered by a black hoodie, the SAS emblem stitched into the right shoulder. He half wondered if Mark slept in the damn thing. </p><p>“Nah. Tried, ended up talking with Grace and Masaru for an hour and getting myself into a knot.” He shook his head. “Can’t sleep with my head actin’ like a rabbit.”</p><p>A nod from Timur. “I understand.”</p><p>“Sorry if I’m intruding on your time,” Mark said, almost too quiet to hear. The man had never been one to talk a lot in social situations, but in a one on one scenario, he seemed to be mildly less tense. He’d always been awkward, as long as Timur had known him in the team.</p><p>“You are not,” the sniper replied. “No need to apologize. I came up here to watch the snow, and the company is welcome.”</p><p>The engineer nodded slightly, though Timur knew the man probably hadn’t smiled. It was one of those things that didn’t happen unless he was stressed; the only time Timur could remember hearing Mark laugh was when they were on the verge of losing a hostage and there was a bomber searching for him. The memory of the panicked laughing was enough to send a jolt down his spine.</p><p>“Hey, Glazkov?” The hesitant tone of voice caught Timur off guard, as did the fact Mark was engaging him directly.</p><p>“Yes, Mark? You do know you may call me Timur, yes?” The tone was gentle, but urging.</p><p>“You and Basuda, you’ve been together a while, right? Through some fights?”</p><p>“Ah. Yes, several. Did you get into one with your partners?”</p><p>“Partner,” Mark corrected. “Just James. Seamus doesn’t know yet, unless James told him already.”</p><p>Timur nodded, recalling the arguments he and Maxim had. From heated discussions to major blowouts, they’d always viewed the interaction as a way to get the frustration out before speaking on more stable ground. “What about? If you are comfortable.”</p><p>Mark shifted on his heels, rubbing his forearm while avoiding eye contact. Even Timur knew this language, the discomfort that came with something that wasn’t necessarily worth the fight it got.</p><p>“It was over James’ recklessness. He got shot in the last real mission, because he couldn’t sit still long enough to let Taina do her job, and… and I blew up at him because I don’t want him to come back in a body bag. He didn’t understand why I'm so worried, even though he’s got a scar through his shoulder.”      </p><p>Timur’s eyes widened. For such a serious issue, Mark sounded like he was uncomfortable admitting his worry. It wasn’t like the worry wasn’t valid in this line of work, given that danger that surrounds every corner during a mission. </p><p>"Mark, that is not a small argument." </p><p>"He.. he said it was. That it wasn't too big of a deal, that it was fine, but I saw the look on his face before we left for this and I just- I don't want to split up over this when it's so easy to not-" </p><p>"Mark." </p><p>The engineer went quiet, fidgeting with something on the shelf. Even with his mask and hood on, he looked uncomfortable and almost regretful. Timur sighed, pushing himself off the wall to move over to the opposite side of the shelving unit. </p><p>"Maxim and I had a similar fight." </p><p>There was silence, but Timur heard no footsteps or anxious fidgeting on the other side. He tapped his own fingers on the self, looking at the book that sat haphazardly crooked.</p><p>"During the event where Marius burned part of his face and Alexsandr… died. Maxim and I had a fight before we shipped out to help contain the outbreak and retrieve our pilot. I was worried, knowing he may not come back, and was afraid he would be too comfortable in such an unknown environment. It was loud. Shuhrat and Alexsandr both got involved to separate us."</p><p>"Both of them?" </p><p>"Yes. I was afraid of losing him, not because I did not trust him, but because I did not trust where he was going. It was only when he was neck deep in a fight for his life over a civilian doctor that the realization my last words to him may have been spoken out of anger dawned on me. I did not say anything then, nor for several days after we were free of that hellscape."</p><p>He paused, tracing the spine of the book. It was new, no creases in the navy binding, no bent pages. He wondered absently what it was- he was versed in English, and his mother tongue was fluid to him, but this was French from the look of it. </p><p>"When we returned to the base, I tried to talk to him. He spoke first. He apologized to me, claiming I had full rights to react so vividly to something so painfully real. I apologized to him, then. For making him think I did not trust him to take care of himself. I realized later that I was only afraid of everything else going wrong, instead of trusting that he would do everything right." </p><p>Mark came around the side of the shelves, hands in his pockets, face still etched with worry yet somehow relieved. Brown eyes flickered with uncertainty as Timur shifted to give him a gentle glance. </p><p>"You two made up, didn't you?"</p><p>"After talking for several hours, yes. It is normal to worry for your partner when any injury could spell the end. And, given your partner's reaction before we left, I believe he may already be trying to figure out how to approach it."</p><p>The Englishman breathed a slight sigh of relief. Timur gave him a nod, though not quite a smile. Mark was never quite as adapted as the rest of them to social situations, and struggled to ask for help with anything involving himself. Something in the sniper was grateful the younger man had reached out, though awkward that it was for something so difficult to approach. </p><p>"Sorry to ask that of you, Glazkov." </p><p>"No need to apologize. I enjoy helping. Things like this are not easy, especially when they are wrapped in emotion and twisted in anxieties." </p><p>The young engineer nodded quietly, before looking to the window. He started to ask something before faltering and going quiet, to which the sniper waved him toward it. A few minutes later, they were watching the snow swirl and dance on an unseen, ever changing stage. Timur absently touched the necklace the hunter had given him years ago, reminding himself that his own story was true. Mark had wrapped his arms around himself, a motion of self comfort and gentle exhaustion.</p><p>The world was quiet, and so were they.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Timur is a blessing and I hope yall know that <br/>Next chapter is happier I promise</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Drone Sacrifice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bandit wants to know if something is possible. Thirty minutes later, the ops are children and have no self control when seeking entertainment.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Max had been disassembling one of his Pests before breakfast, trying to distract himself from the monotony of the previous night. The silence was maddening, though he assumed it was only him who felt that way; being up before breakfast only to find that Jordan and Eliza were already starting food was mildly disorienting. He knew Eliza was a long standing early bird, but Jordan usually tried to sleep in by a solid hour.</p>
<p>It was quiet enough at first, until the thunder of several footsteps came running down the hallways. Mark, Grace, Masaru, and Dominic emerged from the doorway, Dominic carrying one of the spared drones from the training scenario the day before. They looked both bewildered and excited, though in Grace’s case, mildly terrified. It didn’t help that Mark was carrying one of his faux-nitro charges, nor that Masaru looked like he was far too amused for his own good.</p>
<p>“Mozzie!” Dominic put the drone on the table first, followed by Mark putting the nitro on the table. Masaru tossed duct tape at the table, and Dominic was the one to put his hands on either side of the pile.</p>
<p>“What the fuckin’ hell?” Max glanced between the pile and the four operatives that were looking like excited teenagers.</p>
<p>“Mozz,” Dominic started, eyes glimmering. “What stops you from strapping this nitro to one of the drones you catch and then sending it straight into the attacker team?”</p>
<p>Max opened his mouth, initially to protest against the idea. Then it dawned on him. There were, technically, no rules saying that he could not do exactly that. He got the same look in his eye that Dominic did. </p>
<p>And then the chaos began. Grace led the charge downstairs, with the party that came to collect him trailing close behind. They collected as many spare faux-nitros that remained from the training exercise - three, considering Mark had used one to clear a room - and the five drones left from the scenario. It was Dominic that strapped the nitro to the first drone, and Max that drove it out into the middle of the cellar.</p>
<p>The results were, in short, glorious. </p>
<p>Chalk went everywhere, the cellar coated in a thick layer of the white dust. The team briefly mourned the loss of the drone for such a necessary step in science, but soon enough, it had gotten to an even more intense bout of fun. They weren't entirely doing this because of scientific necessity, but there was also nobody stopping them. </p>
<p>Within ten minutes of the faux-nitro explosion, Grace and Max were having a drone knife fight, and Masaru was helping Mark with trying to hitch flashbangs to another drone. Dominic had decided to get the results of it all on video, suppressing laughter at the two "dronicorns". It was likely the fact they were all already mildly stir crazy from having to be in the same house together, and yet the fun of trying to find new ways to ambush their fellow operatives was more than enough entertainment. </p>
<p>None of them noticed Eliza and Jordan until the latter cleared his throat as loudly as he could. </p>
<p>"Guys, I know we all want to keep playing with our toys, but uh. Breakfast. Unless you really, really want Doc to give you a lecture." </p>
<p>The party of drone destroyers looked at each other for a moment before agreeing to come upstairs, though Max snatched the last two drones from the pile. He would put these to good use while they were in this situation; if he was lucky, he could even get some untouched pictures of the surrounding area. </p>
<p>If he was really lucky, he could probably convince Eliza to let him disassemble the drones a few times to ease his energetic mind. That would be far, far better than dismantling the same Pest fifty two times and a half. </p>
<p>When they got back upstairs, most everyone was already there and helping themselves. The only one missing was, understandably, Gustave. It was a fantastic start to the day, much better than they had expected for the first day of a long stay. Maybe this wouldn't be too bad after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Rest in peace, Drone #55284. Your sacrifice will be remembered forever.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jordan thinks he's fine. Team Dad points out he's not.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jordan rounded the corner into the library, expecting to see Grace or Mark standing at the shelves. He even expected to see Masaru and Max gaming and using the library as the arena. What he hadn't expected was to find Gilles reading the summary of one of the many books, alone beyond the silent company of Mark sitting at the desk and playing on his phone next to the window. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he hadn’t thought of Gilles as a recreational reader.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The library was mostly quiet beyond the soft shuffling of paper, giving Jordan the time to unwrap his hands and pick a book off the shelf. He liked the feel of paper under his hands, or what he could still feel of the pages. He settled on the floor next to the same window Mark was beside, deciding that asking for the chair was a bit too rude for the quiet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe, though, the quiet was what had gotten to all three of them. It wasn’t long before the words on the pages didn’t quite keep his attention, and not much longer after that when Gilles finally spoke and broke the silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever spoken to Gustave about your hands?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That was not the question he was expecting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jordan looked up, having to lean back and crane his neck to meet the eyes of the Mountain. It was still startling to know that this man towered over even the tallest of the American ops - if only by an inch in Jack’s case. Jordan moved his fingers, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the inside of his knuckles as he shook his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nah. Figured it was a waste of Doc’s time. It’s just old burned skin, so it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.” Jordan shrugged it off, looking at the permanent red and white lacing his skin, the rough texture still a little unsettling even to himself. Years of not wearing protective gear had hurt his hands and the ability to feel through them properly, even if only slightly; the tips of his fingers and the backs of his hands had lost most of their feeling, instead leaving him with feeling from the second knuckle down and in the palms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It is not,” Gilles stated, voice firm as he knelt to sit beside the American. “That damage will make your hands weaker over time.” The Texan was almost insulted by how gentle the man’s voice was; no matter how frustrated Gilles was, it always seemed like his voice was even and his tone was kind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jordan huffed, putting the book down after dog-earing the page. “I'm not gonna bug Doc over somethin' like this. He's got the entire team on his plate, it wouldn't be right of me to ask him to look at this." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could hear Mark tapping aggressively on his phone screen, realizing the man must be typing. Understandable; he only really talked in a one on one situation, and that was only if his anxiety forced him to. Jordan turned his head to find Mark holding out his phone, the notepad open.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You need to talk to Doc. Your hands will eventually get too stiff to use equipment properly if you don’t take care of them, and then you’ll be forced to retire early, Sparky.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t sure if that was well-meaning or not, but when Mute took back his phone it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else. Not that he really needed to, considering that the Brit had a decent point. Even if Jordan’s face went sour at the mere mention of retirement, and he made a strangled sound at the concept of </span>
  <em>
    <span>early</span>
  </em>
  <span> retirement</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Jordan grumbled, wrinkling his nose. “But I still think Doc ain’t gonna be able to do anythin’. It’s just old scars.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well maybe,” Gilles stated, voice mildly sarcastic, “You should start wearing </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual gloves?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But that makes firing my weapons harder!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He heard a snort from Mark, and realized too late that he had said that in front of the wrong person. The SAS wore some of the most restrictive uniforms in the Team, and beat out even the JTF2 on the layers that went into their uniforms; he’d watched Mike put on the gear, and he was still baffled as to how the four of them operated for hours at a time without overheating. If any of them could maintain performance in uniforms that forced them to stay calm like that, then he should be able to maintain his own performance with only a normal set of protective-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah. That was the entire point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His cheeks flushed as he waved away Mark’s phone, knowing already what it was going to say. He shook his head with a weak laugh, trying to not to let the steady realization show on his face </span>
  <span>beyond the heat that made him wish he could escape. “Alright, alright.I’ll go talk to Doc and see if he can do anything, okay? Just stop harassing me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We would not harass you at all if you took care of yourself.” Gilles’ voice was that of a disappointed father’s, and suddenly Jordan understood why he was such an effective teacher. “You only have one body, Trace. Once it is broken, it cannot be reversed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you ever scolded Mute like this? He’s worse at self-care than I am, for Christ’s sake!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, and he has been attending therapy to get better about it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a grunt from the desk. Well, at least he wasn’t alone in being the problem child; he gave Gilles a semi sour look with no bite behind it. The mountain of a man gave him nothing but a smile back as he returned to his own place by the shelves. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Gilles knew how much like a father he was, or if he simply never noticed himself.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thermite baby please wear gloves your hands look absolutely terrible<br/>also forgive me, i tried to keep Monty's language with no contractions</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Drinking Questions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Alcohol is a good way to pass the time if you don't want to watch B rated movies.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dominic had started it, finding the alcohol and cheering loud enough for the rest of the team to hear. Only a few had taken part, and the rest had elected to go watch a movie; in the living room, they could hear the others watching some B rated horror movie. As it stood, it was Dominic, Jordan, Masaru, Timur, and Gustave who had remained in the bar; Gustave staying was a surprise, though he had asked for wine over the heavier alcohol. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was only after they’d all put back a glass or two - three, in Timur’s case - that he’d put his glass down on the bar. He felt a buzz, enough to excuse his curiosity in his teammates as he blinked away the slight fuzz to his vision.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” he said lookin between them all. “Got a question for you. The first one to answer gets to ask the rest of us a question. Fair?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jordan’s laugh was enough confirmation from him. Timur and Gustave both nodded, though Gustave had an eyebrow raised; Masaru shrugged, a typical response from the roboticist that didn’t quite seem to give more than a single fuck at any given moment. With confirmation, he took another drink before asking his question. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s the thing that got you in a relationship?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He heard Timur choke on the drink before anyone else could respond, though Gustave answered properly before the poor Russian could get any indignant language out through his coughing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gilles kept visiting me at work for nearly a month after meeting me, and then asked me out to dinner as I was pulling a bullet out of his chest.” The Frenchman took another drink of his wine, a fond smile on his face. “Stubborn man he’s always been. We’ve been together since that weekend.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everyone had turned to look at the doctor with varying degrees of incredulous expressions. Masaru had actually looked up from his drink, blinking in an attempt to register what was just said. It was Jordan who found his words first and promptly put the rest of the group’s thoughts into words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He asked you to dinner with a bullet in his chest?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no, there were two. The third one got caught in his flask, so he was lucky. Two bullets from an AR-18 in his chest. No idea how he was alive, much less conscious and speaking to me during an operation to remove the bullets.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“From a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Widowmaker?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Dominic asked, still absolutely baffled. “Those things earned their name, how the hell is Touré alive?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not a clue, if I’m honest. Both bullets struck non-vital organs and allowed him to stay alive, and the last one was caught in the metal of his grandfather’s flask at an angle that would have severed an aorta if it had landed true. Gilles has always said God was watching at that moment,” Gustave laughed, a certain fondness in his voice. “Back when it happened, I was worried for his safety. But now it is more of a… fond memory.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to have to tell me that entire story someday, Kateb,” Dominic said, jabbing a finger toward the man as he took another drink. “Alright, then. What’s your question?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The doctor thought for a moment, before looking over and making direct eye contact with the sniper a seat down from him. He seemed to consider his options for a moment, before downing the last of his wine and reaching for the bottle as he spoke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What is the one thing you fear when you have to return to civilian life?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can the answer be everything?” Jordan asked in return, before realizing he’d been the one to answer anyway. “Ah, fuck.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean by everything?” Masaru questioned, brows furrowed. “Forgive me if I do not understand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, uh,” Jordan started, before rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish laugh. “Just, a lot, you know? I won’t have the schedule, I won’t have the freedom to create, I won’t have a lot of the stability I have while in the service. It’ll be like being a stranger in my own homeland. Sure, people will respect me and all, but they’ll forget I’ve seen some shit. I might not lose all feeling in my hands, but I’ll be treated like shit by the VA and if I’m really unlucky I can end up homeless...” He cut himself off. “It’s better to die in the military than out of it, at least in the US.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The silence was a little heavier than any of them had expected, the dark reality of Jordan’s statements sinking in as they chewed on his blunt statement. It went quiet for a moment, broken only by a shriek from Grace in the living room that jolted them all from their thoughts and the laughter of Max and Eliza.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right, well, uh,” Jordan said, shaking his head. “Fuck it, what do you miss most about bein’ a kid?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That is easy,” Timur replied, shrugging. “Not having nightmares every other night.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“See, that’s something I can agree with,” Dominic replied with a laugh, to which Masaru and Gustave also seemed to agree. “Never thought I’d miss dreaming until I stopped.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jordan shrugged. “Fair enough. I just miss being able to get a tattoo without having to ask fifteen people and their mothers.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The strangled laugh from Dominic, quickly followed by him grabbing for a napkin, got the entire bar laughing amongst themselves. It was something about seeing the German snort beer that got them all losing their composure, and when it was combined with the alcohol they had already downed, it made everything so much funnier.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once the german dried his face and was given a glass of water to ease the sting of revenge from his drink, they settled back down with only the occasional chuckle or uncontrolled laugh.. Timur rubbed his face, shaking himself back into some semblance of sobriety as he poured himself another glass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My turn?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Glazkov, hit us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He swirled his drink before he looked over to the doctor. Gustave nodded with a half-drunk smile, lifting his glass to his lips as his brows lifted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Everyone answers this, because Masaru is the only one who has yet to get a chance, so here,” Timur half-laughed. “What is the one thing you want to do for your partner that you keep missing chances to do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh come </span>
  <em>
    <span>on</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Dominic groaned, shaking his head even as his smile grew wider. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You started this with a relationship question!” Timur retorted. “All is fair!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fair enough, anyway,” Jordan laughed in response. “Alright, who’s f- I just volunteered myself didn’t I?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck yeah you did.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck you, Brunsmeier.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not my job!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Texan rolled his eyes. “Alright, fine. I’m planning on taking Mike out for vacation next year. He's been stressed for months and bitchy for longer. Won't tell you where, but if I can convince him…" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Best of luck, mon ami," Gustave said with a chuckle. "He is quite a focused man." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I know! I just want to take him somewhere relaxing so he can get out of his own head for a while." Jordan sighed. "Gotta get him to agree, though." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> in that man?" Dominic asked, genuinely.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Hey!" Timur said, tapping his glass in the bar. "No changing the subject, Dominic, it is your turn to answer!" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The German made a face. "Oh, fuck, fine. Been planning on giving Elias a ring." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I'm sorry?!" Jordan's head shot up. "You're gonna propose?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Not… no, not entirely," Dominic admitted, sheepishly rubbing his cheek. "More of a promise. When we get out, I… the rest of our lives, you know?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That's sweet," Timur relented. "Knowing Elias, he will refuse to take the damn thing off." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That's the point, mister Everyone-Has-To-Answer. Your turn!"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You never said we had to answer our own questions!'</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I now declare that we do, now answer!" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Masaru and Jordan laughed almost painfully into their drinks, clearly trying to muffle their laughter at the dramatic tones the two men had taken. Gustave shook his head before gently tapping Timur on the shoulder, nodding to him expectantly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I would have asked something else if I had known… fine," Timur grumbled, before downing his glass again. He avoided the gaze of the German in front of him, fixating on the wall behind the bar. "We are planning on a hunting trip next autumn. I am planning to surprise him with a gift but, unfortunately, Maxim is difficult to give anything. He needs so little and wants for nothing…" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The frustration on the sniper's face was evident, but not quite upset: rather, his expression was of fond irritation. He shook his head after a moment, straightening up and looking to the doctor. "And you?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I cannot say," Gustave chuckled. "Gilles will hear, no matter how loud that movie is. Do know that it does involve the two of us going back to France - Paris if possible." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yannow? That's fair. He's the one with his husband here," Jordan remarked, raising his hand in acceptance. With begrudging reluctance, Timur and Dominic agreed and Masaru sighed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Must I?" Masaru asked, looking at Dominic with an almost pleading expression. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"We all did it, now it's your turn." The German shrugged. "Fair is fair, Enatsu." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The roboticist huffed softly before staring at his drink, as if debating on using the last of it to steel himself to admit what he was trying to avoid talking about. He opted to leave it as is, shaking his head as he looked back to the other operators. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I want to give him a mask he can wear off duty,” Masaru confessed, sounding a little shy about the concept. “He always wears the tactical mask, and I worry it contributes to his constant on-edge mentality. I just don’t know if he will take it well, or if he will think it is rude.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jordan perked up from the other end of the bar, a smile appearing on his face. “Hey, that’s actually kinda nice, though”.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dominic nodded and lifted his drink. “Alright, Enatsu. What’s your question?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The roboticist raised his brows. “Easy. What do you hate about training?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dominic responded first, and almost instantly after the question finished. “Fucking blizzards.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a moment of silence before the five of them began to laugh among themselves, all of them finishing their drinks together as they heard the living room start to get cleaned up. They moved into the living room, realizing too late that the other teammates had put on a second movie. Gilles was the one to wave them over to the couch, Grace and Mark sharing a blanket as they watched the screen’s opening logos. Dominic groaned, but found himself and his drinking partners sitting with the team as the opening scene of a shitty B-rated sequel came on screen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes it was nice to just be human.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'd like to thank my two beta readers for being patient with me</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Miscommunications</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ash doesn't know why she can't get Mute to talk.<br/>Dokkaebi and Echo remind her that he's not exactly the prime example of social skills.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She wasn’t sure why they didn’t see eye to eye.</p><p>Eliza had been going upstairs to talk to Gilles initially. She had wanted to check in on him and his injured arm, worried that the breaching round had caused severe damage or, worse, that the bruising had been deeper than they thought. When she had passed Mark, she had said hello, only to be greeted by a curt sound that was a bare semblance of a greeting as he rounded the platform and went to the main floor.</p><p>It had angered her. Probably more than it should, now that she was thinking about it. She’d been pacing in the office for nearly half an hour when Grace and Masaru had appeared in the doorway, asking if she was alright. Now she was sitting on the floor with them, face in her hands as she tried to put her frustrations to words.</p><p>“I don’t know how to work with a man who just refuses to be talked to!” She rubbed her face, trying not to show how exasperated she really was. “He’s intelligent, he’s fast, he’s one of our best operators for secrecy and covert operations and yet I can’t even have a conversation with him!”</p><p>“That’s just how Mark is,” Grace assured her. “He doesn’t even talk that much to me unless something is eating away at him and making him anxious. He doesn’t have many social skills, even though he’s well adjusted to the military.”</p><p>“I noticed that, too. Even when we are gaming, he tends to be completely nonverbal.” Masaru nodded as he toyed with the tools in his hands. "He seems to simply be a man of few words, and those he does speak are blunt. I honestly cannot recall any time I have heard him say more than three or four words at a time." </p><p>Eliza pulled on her cheeks before groaning and folding her arms in her lap, leaning over. She glanced between them, half grimacing as she asked her question. </p><p>"So how the hell do you even work with a man like that?" </p><p>Grace shrugged. "Patience."</p><p>"What." Eliza sounded incredulous. </p><p>"Patience, Ash. He isn't easy to understand, but he has a language all his own. It's in his little movements, how he looks at you, how he positions his body. He didn't develop any of the social skills we got to, so he had to develop his own." She shrugged again, a smile appearing on her face. "Brilliant with technology, incredible with new concepts, fascinating ideas in his workbooks. But when it comes to people, he isn't like us." </p><p>The FBI operator groaned. "But then how did he even get here? I understood Thorn, he has… so much shit under his belt. But Chandar hasn't had any of that happen to him-"</p><p>"Cohen, he was fourteen and accepted into one of the highest schools in his country. He was an intern in one of the world's strongest network security companies at twelve and overhauled almost half their systems to be more efficient. He had a doctorate at nineteen and was a member of Rainbow at twenty," Grace stated, voice firm. "That man has never had the chance to be a child. He grew up before he ever got a chance to know what growing up was." </p><p>Eliza paused, absorbing the comments. It was so easy to forget Mark was only twenty-five and had been a member of Team Rainbow for a fifth of his life. That he was keeping up with people ten to twenty-five years older than him, and often didn't have enough experience to contribute to casual conversation once it wandered into anything involving adulthood or extended experience.</p><p>"Is he not also under pressure from his home country?" Masaru asked, tone genuinely concerned. "I thought that was what you and Chandar bonded over to begin with." </p><p>"Not country. Family. His parents are the kind to demand the best from him, all the time- failing has never been an option,” she replied. “Sound familiar? He told me once that being able to fail in Rainbow during these training exercises is almost liberating for him, as is losing in sparring matches and the struggle to learn a new language."</p><p>"As long as it is not an actual operation, we all have the freedom to try new things and fail,” Masaru stated, nodding. “It helps us all to be sure of our limits. Oh, and, which language?" </p><p>"I've been teaching him Korean when we have the time. He also uses an app in his phone to practice and learn on his own." She sounded proud and puffed herself up just a little. "He finally had a short conversation with Ch- ah, Vigil, the other day! He only got a few sentences in before he had to ask for help, but it was good!"</p><p>"Oh, thank you." </p><p>"I know he doesn't like his name being said a lot, and you did ask nicely, so I'm trying to stop." </p><p>Eliza watched them talk as she realized just how distant the youngest member of the team must be. Always lacking the experience to talk to the older members, consistently facing the challenge of having to back himself up on almost everything. Now that she thought about it, she wondered if she herself had taken him seriously, or if she had dismissed him as just rude.</p><p>She bit her lips as she averted her eyes. Of course, she had dismissed him; he was curt and blunt, and never seemed to have any tact. For a communications officer, he had always seemed to lack any knowledge of how to communicate with his teammates beyond a professional setting. She could remember when she found out about Porter and Cowden bringing him into their relationship and the absolute confusion she hadn’t been able to get over that anyone could get along with him, let alone want to be in a relationship. She realized, almost bitterly, that she had assumed nobody else could talk to the man if she couldn't.</p><p>Some part of her wondered if he would be easier to get along with if she had learned to communicate to him the way he understood instead of trying to force him to talk the way she did.</p><p>“I feel like an ass,” she said, realizing too late she’d thought out loud. </p><p>“Why?” Grace turned to look at Eliza, brows furrowed. </p><p>“I keep forgetting he’s so young. He’s probably had no time to develop social skills because he’s so deep in his own research and work,” she grumbled. “I keep expecting everyone to speak up the same way and I’ve been acting like an ass to Chandar in expecting someone who relies on everything but being vocal to be, well, vocal. I owe him an apology.”</p><p>Grace looked between her and the door to the hallway, and Masaru began shaking his head. She couldn’t see under Masaru’s mask, but she could see the crease under his eyes that meant he was smiling; Grace looked like an overly amused raccoon, given that her brows were so high and her smile barely contained.</p><p>“He’s right there, isn’t he?”</p><p>Both of them began laughing at the same time, turning to each other to avoid showing their entire smile to Eliza. She started to twist where she sat before her phone buzzed, and the sound of footsteps retreating from the doorway caught her ears. He had already left, no longer in the doorway when she checked; as she fished her phone out of her pocket, it buzzed again. She entered the code, swiping to the message alert.</p><p>
  <i>Apology accepted. Text me if you want to talk. -M.</i>
</p><p>She swiped to the next message, brows furrowed.</p><p>It was a recording of the end of her epiphany. She heard herself admit that she was being an ass in her expectations, and owing him an apology. She flushed, feeling her face turn a shade of red that she thought was only possible when she was drunk or right after a training exercise.</p><p>“I’m never living this down, am I?”</p><p>The two techies across from her, who had only barely recovered from their laughing fit, collapsed into a second bout. Grace’s giggling mixed with Masaru’s restrained laughter managed to put a smile on Eliza’s face as she shook her head and got up. She’d come up here to check on Touré, and she was only just realizing how sidetracked she’d gotten.<br/>
At least something good had come out of this.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'll die on the "mute has no social skills" hill</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Homesick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mozzie wants food. Mozzie remembers everyone has different ideas of what food is and suggests sharing the kitchen. </p><p>Montagne regrets putting himself so close to the wall, part 3.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The weather still hadn’t cleared, much to Max’s dismay. He’d found himself in the kitchen again, staring at the window that was now snowed over; he hadn’t said anything to begin with, but now that he was realizing that they were being snowed into the building, he felt claustrophobic. He liked to have an escape route, somewhere to go, some way out. </p><p>He leaned on the countertop, clasping his hands as he put his weight on his elbows. It wasn’t cold inside the house, the generators still going strong as they stayed warm. It wasn’t lonely, it wasn’t crowded; the house was just closed, and there was only so much they could do. It felt like they had burned through all of their entertainment in a matter of twenty-four hours and he was now left to flutter in the wind.</p><p>He fidgeted, trying not to get any more frustrated with the situation as he distracted himself with his gloves, picking at the frayed stitches holding the leather to the cloth. He missed Tori’s cooking, now that he had to go without it; the sheer thought of her barbecue making his stomach growl. He only barely realized when Gilles, Gustave, and Eliza came into the kitchen, looking up absently. </p><p>“Oh, shit, am I in your way?” He gave them a worried look, starting to get up as he realized Gilles’ arm was being taken out of the sling.</p><p>“You’re fine, Goose,” Eliza assured him. “We’re just checking his arm to make sure it’s just bruising and nothing worse. What are you up to?”</p><p>“Missing the barbie and wanting some beer,” he replied, his smile halfway real. “Need some help?”</p><p>“Actually, if you could talk to Touré while we look at his arm…” Eliza trailed off, to which Max happily scooted over a couple of seats to sit next to the mountain of a man. </p><p>He glanced at the arm as it came out of the sling, the deep black and blue splotched with purple. It had developed since the initial injury, the entire forearm and part of the wrist looking like it had been run over by Tori’s truck. He winced, watching the agent hold Gilles’ arm still while the doctor rolled the sleeve up to see the full extent of the damage. He made a note to get clear of her breaching rounds if he heard them nearby, realizing that this sort of damage was with the added protection of Le Roc.</p><p>“So, anyway, before I ask why the hell you were that close to the wall,” Max said, diverting his attention to the man a full foot taller than him, “Did you ever learn how to cook?”</p><p>“You are very fixated on food,” Gilles replied, suppressing a wince as he kept his attention on Max. The Australian could see his pain in gritted teeth, the slight squint around his eyes. “I only know what my mother taught me. Gustave was always better at cooking between us.”</p><p>“Really? Doc? I didn’t think he came out of his files long enough to eat, let alone cook.” He heard the grunt of half-minded acknowledgment from the focused Parisian, and cracked a smile as he tried not to laugh. “Sorry if I’m focused. I miss Tori’s cooking and it hasn’t even been a week.”</p><p>“Understandable. I believe I heard Dominic lamenting the lack of any, erm, ‘proper food’ in the house. Something about nothing being bitter enough for him.”</p><p>“I mean, we could do what we were doin’ back at the base. Those weekly heritage food nights, except everyone gets a day because we’re stuck here for God knows how long,” Max said offhandedly. “That way we don’t get tired of eating the same thing every night.”</p><p>Gilles raised his brows, and Eliza peeked around the large man’s shoulders. They both looked curious, Eliza’s next statement cut short by a sudden jolt and sharp inhale of the Frenchman she was holding still; his face had twisted into a restrained grimace, and Max could hear the grip on his pants tightening to the point of straining the fabric.</p><p>“Your wrist is not broken, but I am going to ask you to not strain it. I don’t want you to end up with worse issues because you pushed yourself before we had proper medical supplies to examine it,” Doc stated plainly, pulling his hands away. “If I had a brace, you would be in it.”</p><p>“Whatever you did, my love, I beg you to not do it again,” Gilles hissed, eyes slowly opening. “It felt like Basuda had shoved his knife through my arm the long way.”</p><p>“Well perhaps you won’t put yourself so close to a breaching round next time,” the doctor retorted, gently helping the shieldbearer back into the sling. “Now, what were you two saying regarding dinner?”</p><p>Max snorted at the delayed reaction, though he didn’t say anything toward it; Gustave was always one to fixate on his work when he was treating a patient. He looked to the two Frenchmen and then to Eliza, before nodding to her. </p><p>“I’m thinkin’ we have heritage food nights, like the monthly ones at the base. There’s enough food here that we should be able to do at least something resembling the dishes we want, long as it’s simple. That way we aren’t eatin’ the same stuff every night.”</p><p>“That’s a wonderful idea if Cohen a-”</p><p>“For God’s sake, yes.”</p><p>“Then you should go tell the others and get a volunteer for tonight, then,” Gustave commented idly, slumping in his chair to put his head down. </p><p>Max raised a brow as he got up, excitement burning in his hands as he realized they’d actually get to interact with each other and have more reason than movies to talk to the other operators. “You tired already, Doc?”</p><p>“Turns out when you barely sleep more than four to five hours a night - total, not consecutively - it wears you down,” Eliza laughed, moving to the doorway. “Come on, let’s go discuss the schedule with the others. Pretty sure Trace is going to call the first night, so be warned, it'll get spicy.”</p><p>"Oh <i>yes</i>."</p><p>Max was out of the room faster than Eliza could turn the corner, laughter sounding both relieved and re-energized. Cooking, at the very least, was something they could all bond with.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Forgive the short entry, chapters will be longer than this-</p></blockquote></div></div>
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